


better in time

by IsleofSolitude



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-13 14:26:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18470797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsleofSolitude/pseuds/IsleofSolitude
Summary: ~At my worst, I worry you’ll realize you deserve better.  At my best, I worry you won’t. (I’ve never been better.)~Quentin knew he could never be objective when it came to his self image. His brain had been broken for too long, and in too many ways, for him to rely on it to tell fact from fiction, especially when it came to his actions. Plus, he hadn’t had the most supportive parents in the world--sure, they were there, mostly, but that doesn’t mean they were able to be there for him the way he needed.





	better in time

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr prompt from Pritkinspalemoons  
> "At my worst, I worry you’ll realize you deserve better. At my best, I worry you won’t. (I’ve never been better.)"

Quentin knew he could never be objective when it came to his self image. His brain had been broken for too long, and in too many ways, for him to rely on it to tell fact from fiction, especially when it came to his actions. Plus, he hadn’t had the most supportive parents in the world--sure, they were there, mostly, but that doesn’t mean they were able to be there for him the way he needed. 

And life hadn’t exactly gone the way he had hoped, back when he and Julia were daydreaming under a table and turning pages in a book that kept his world going and waking up each morning with the mantra of “there is magic out there, I’ll find it”. 

No, life had dicked around and decided that he should be the punchline of his own existence, should give him love to give and no way to tell if it was healthy or obsessive, that he should be a volunteer martyr for not one, but two fucked up worlds that were disappointing if you even peaked behind the curtain, and not only were they fucked up, but they barely even wanted him--Quentin didn’t fit on Earth, not at home and not at undergrad and only sometimes at Brakebills. And despite loving Fillory with every atom of his being, he wasn’t anything to it. Not the high king, not the one who was the most powerful with the best chance of defeating the Beast. He wasn’t a good king, or someone who fit in with the centaurs and the questing animals and the people--He was just. Quentin. A fuck up who wanted things selfishly. The person with a broken brain who broke his parents’ trust and his friendship with Julia and his relationship with Alice and all of magic in the only two worlds that he ever tried to live in.

Eliot was probably miserable spending this quest trapped with him.

Eliot was the exact opposite of Quentin. He had spent years reinventing himself, and it worked! He was talented and had never broken his best friend because he wanted to be special. He had been the most popular guy at Brakebills, and was High King in a world he barely knew. He was compentent and charming and---could sing and dance and cook and make decisions and talk without stuttering and bring people to an orgasm by just barely touching them---

And Eliot was stuck here with Quentin. And Quentin knew he was selfish, because he was pleased. He’d had a lot of time to think about it, and anyone else on this quest? It wouldn’t happen. Quentin would have split--would have run away, would have broken it, would have been broken himself--if it was anyone but Eliot here with him.

Eliot, talking him down. Eliot, haggling to get a second bed so Quentin could lay outside when he couldn’t bring himself to function. Eliot, flirting to get seeds and growing a little garden to make things better for them. Eliot, who rubbed Quentin’s shoulders and manhandled him on days when Quentin’s body was fuzzy on how to care for himself. Eliot, talking his anxieties off the edge and giving him the heavier coat and braiding his hair and kisses so sweet that Quentin would finally remember how to dream--

For the first three years, Quentin was terrified that Eliot would come to his senses--would remember that Quentin was shitty, that Eliot could do so much, do anything else, be anywhere else--and leave. Run away, like Quentin had tried. Ditch Quentin and find a way back to Margo, to alcohol and splendor and fun (Oh, how Quentin missed fun, feeling fun, being fun). 

But he never did. Eliot stayed, through the seasons, and stayed through the fights and the fucks and the feelings. Eliot stayed, and Quentin worried, and the mosaic did nothing. Years passed.

And Quentin’s brain, it was broken. It would always have cracks and scars and pain. It took so many decades, but one day Quentin woke up and looked at his husband’s sleeping face, saw the laugh lines and the crows feet and the jaw the lashes the peace that made Eliot, Eliot, and smiled, because the dawn was just barely sneaking into the window and Quentin knew that however much he wanted Eliot, Eliot...wanted him just as much.

Quentin smiled and snuggled closer.


End file.
